


to talk about the weather

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-19 01:57:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Fifteen years old is the middle of [your] life, regardless of when [you] die." - Édouard Levé</p>
<p>Boy meets boy. They discuss more than just the weather.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to talk about the weather

It all started way back in May when you decided for the first time to go out and see the world. Only instead of grabbing your rusty, archaic bike from the eleventh floor of your apartment building and waiting impatiently in the elevator for three minutes until you would hit ground level and pedal with enough force that you'd be an insignificant ant no matter who looked at you from whichever position in Houston -- you sat in your dimly lit room at 2 in the morning, downing milligram after milligram of Focalin in order to keep awake and Google first account stories of Guy Fieri wading across the Huang He river in China. To this day, you don't remember the details from the blogs you searched all that well, and the fuzziness of the passing nights spent wasting away at your computer desk with a can of Monster-brand energy drink in hand are some of your most clouded memories.

If the yearning began way back in May, then the point where it turned to a full-fledged disadvantage and harm to your well-being slash mental health commenced in the summer.

Your name is Dave Strider and everything before you met Dirk is beside the point.

It was July; you had finished your first year of high school with solid Cs in everything but European History. You don't really get why, however, you don't really care. If God would be so kind as to give you an "A", you decided, then you wouldn't dare look him in the mouth. (Well, maybe you would -- He probably didn't like being compared to a horse.) A central part of Euro History that year had been about the Greeks and the Romans and you figured the most useful statement that had derived from countless 10-minute intervals spent researching myths for your term paper, was simply: Rome stole everything from Greece. It was the sad truth that would haunt you months to come. Only you didn't know that then, and you didn't intend on the fact reiterating itself continuously in your dull, dull life.

But, back to the more recent past. It was in July when the apartment in Houston that you had finally grown the balls to call your home grew quite hot. You were sweating profusely, and the AC, of fucking course, was broken. Lying on the bed without the spread, shirtless and in basketball shorts, you hear the doorbell ring. You shout at your benevolent bro to get it, but there's no answer. You forget he's not home. It rings a second time, and there's a sort, double knock. You get up to trudge reluctantly to the door, not bothering to put on a shirt since it was far too hot for 100% heavy-weight cotton to even touch the creases of your slippery skin for even just a moment. You are certain now the person at the door is your bro; he would always ring and knock in that same manner, a secret code you two came up with so you wouldn't avoid the door. You stand at the front of it, hand on the doorknob. Indeed you forget to check the keyhole; you would. A twist, a pull, and a yawn: it comes open. But the male standing in front of you is not your bro, at all.

You figure you need a better code.

Instantly you feel embarrassed, a flush to your cheeks turns it light pink and you silently thank God for the dark shades that shield your red eyes. It's a boy not much older than you, you guess, but definitely not younger. He's awfully pretty, and it pains you to think this; it frightens you that you peer at his cheekbones and your eyes glaze over his light blonde hair and orange eyes. You're not jealous in the slightest, but the feeling that overwhelms you instead is that of fondness. And after all, you feel insanely weird. Quickly, you peek at the rest of his body (dear Lord); he's got on a shirt with a print of an orange baseball cap, and long black jeans. You suddenly feel much better, for there is no doubt now that he is insane, wearing that outfit in this heat. You have no idea how long you've been staring at the taller boy, when he finally says something.

"Hey." It startles you, and you reach up and brush against your own short blonde hair, out of habit. He says it again.

"Hey?" And you know it's in a more questioning tone.

Quickly you respond, "sup," again out of habit.

"Sup" was the default greeting you would type to your online friends in an attempt at hiding your true demeanor. Only you don't realize this, you never do. The boy, the teen standing at your front door, opens his mouth once more, and before he's had the chance of saying whatever it is he was about to say, you interrupt him with a, "who're you?"

The teen in question pauses briefly, and you see his eyebrows crinkle. You have no clue why. All you did was ask him his name.

"I just moved in across the hall," he says, "Name's Dirk."

Oh, _oh_. “Shit, I got this,” you scoff, for some odd reason. “You’re going around asking your new neighbors for a cup of sugar. That’s why you knocked, right?”

“Not really,” he shrugs. “Just thought I should introduce myself out of the kindness of my heart, in all this summer heat. I mean, I can see you’ve got nothing better to do, shirtless guy with no name.”

You get the hint. “It’s Dave.”

“Thanks, man.”

The two of you stand there awkwardly for a few moments before Dirk speaks again.

“I probably should get going. If you’re ever dying in the recesses of your mind, or just want to chill, my door’s open. Figuratively.” He juts his finger behind him, and proceeds to walk away.

You don’t realize you’ve been gaping at the empty hallway, until the elevator some ways down opens with a _woosh_. Slowly you back up inside the apartment, closing the door in front of you. You make your way to your unmade bed, sprawling yourself on the covers. You then turn onto your back, staring at the white ceiling above you.

Your hand makes its way from your side to your stomach, your stomach to your crotch.

And you actually begin to do something you haven’t done in months.

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1/???. My attempt at being profound (though we're not there yet), hope you like!


End file.
